


Of Lily Petals and Rose Thorns

by pantheralupus



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Chibi!Nations, Childhood Sweethearts, Cutesy, Flowers, Fluff, Fluff and Humor, Gen, Humor, It's just really fucking fluffy okay, M/M, Tsunderes, Twisted and Fluffy Feelings, Valentine's Day
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-11 22:23:07
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1178661
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/pantheralupus/pseuds/pantheralupus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>France wants to spend Valentine's Day with England. England isn't so thrilled. </p>
<p>With a little help, they meet in the middle. </p>
<p>(Or How France and England's National Flowers Came to Be)</p>
            </blockquote>





	Of Lily Petals and Rose Thorns

**Author's Note:**

> I forgot about this for like 2 years. It's finally time for it to see the light! I know that Valentine's Day didn't exist back then but the concept was fluffy and I couldn't resist! Any other criticism is appreciated :)

It was one of those rare days in which the whole world seemed to slow down. The lazy afternoon sun hung low in the sky, basking the land in warmth. Even the thickest, darkest forest couldn’t resist for very long. Sunlight filtered through the branches, casting dancing emerald shadows upon the forest floor. Every so often, a breeze wound its way through the ancient grove, ruffling the sandy hair of a young boy and tickling the nose of a plump white rabbit as they dozed under a tree.

Suddenly, the boy’s nose twitched, as if irritated by a foreign scent. He began to stir. His eyelids fluttered, blinking away strange dreams of armoured monsters and multicoloured banners. A wide yawn worked its way from his mouth. He looked around, drowsily taking in his surroundings, then began to settle down again.

“ _Angleterre~_!”

The small boy jumped at the mention of his name, whirling around to face his surprise visitor. His green eyes darkened when they fell upon a familiar curly haired figure, dressed in a trailing blue tunic.

“What do you want, France? Come to make fun of my hair again?” England scowled, though the effect was ruined as he rubbed the sleep from his eyes.

France laughed (rather effeminately, in England’s opinion) and tousled the younger nation’s hair.

“You’re such a grumpy old man,” he said, as England swatted at France’s hands, “Haven’t you heard? Today is Valentine’s Day!”

“I don’t care. I don’t want to celebrate your stupid holidays,” England grumbled, crossing his arms.

“But, _Angleterre!_ ” France exclaimed, his blue eyes widening with mock hurt, “Today is the official day of _loooove_!”

The small boy furrowed his enormous eyebrows. “And what would we do for the day of _loooove?_ ” he asked, his voice dripping with sarcasm.

“You don’t know?” France giggled, obviously delighted with the opportunity to explain. “It is the day for honouring the tragic fate of Saint Valentine, who married lovers _en secret_ , against the wishes of the Roman emperor...”

England stared. Were those _sparkles_ floating around France‘s head?

“…So we spend the day with our loved ones, and give them gifts like flowers for expressing our love!” he ended with a flourish.

If France expected his explanation to be greeted with applause or even an expression of awe, then he was sorely mistaken. Instead, he was met with England‘s scrutinizing gaze.

After a while, the younger blond came to a conclusion.

“It’s still stupid.”

France pouted. “You only think that because you don’t have a heart,” he retorted. Daintily picking up the edges of his tunic, he flounced away before England could formulate a reply.

When he had disappeared among the trees, England was left scowling after him.

“Bloody frog. It‘s not like I wanted his company to begin with,” he muttered, gathering his rabbit into his arms..

His mind was half made up to go after France just to put a new arrow hole into that absurd tunic.

“You shouldn‘t have insulted his culture like that, though.”

England squeaked, nearly dropping his rabbit in shock as a tiny pixie popped out of its fur.

“Caitlyn! Don‘t scare me like that!” he said indignantly.

The pixie giggled and twirled a strand of orange hair around her delicate finger. “You make funny faces,” she chirped, “but you really shouldn‘t call France‘s traditions stupid.”

England spluttered, “But they are! Who would ever want to celebrate Valent — Ow!”

He did drop his rabbit this time, bringing his hands up to rub at his sore nose. He glared at the frowning fae, who was now hovering at eye level with him.

“Why‘d you flick me?” he demanded.

Caitlyn crossed her arms and wrinkled her miniscule nose. “Valentine‘s Day sounds like a wonderful idea. You should apologize to France!”

There was a flash of light, and she was gone.

The young nation continued to splutter incoherently at the empty space the pixie had let behind. Apologize to that frog? Who did she think he was? It wasn‘t like he was pining for that git‘s company!

England huffed and looked at his rabbit. “What do you think I should do?” he asked, not really expecting an answer. It just looked woefully up at him, as if to say, “Why did you drop me? France wouldn’t drop me.”

He groaned. “Bloody hell. Even my rabbit is turning against me. I guess it can‘t be helped then,” England sighed and scooped his beloved pet. Now it was just a matter of finding that frog. 

 

* * *

 

France, meanwhile, had been intent on getting back to his ship and setting sail back to Normandy. Nevermind the fact that his crew barely had time to rest and replenish their supplies, let alone complete their objective of establishing trading partners, he wanted to get off this dreadful island of savages that had no appreciation for the beauty of love.

(Although in the back of his mind, France entertained the image of himself sailing away amidst grey skies and ocean spray, hair streaming dramatically behind him, while a boy with blond hair and green eyes stood against the backdrop of white cliffs, calling his name.)

That was, until he stumbled upon a quaint little meadow, well hidden from human disturbances. Tall white birches enclosed the meadow like great pillars in the palaces of Rome, and in the centre was a small pond with the clearest water France had ever seen, surrounded by a carpet of wildflowers.

The serenity of the scene prompted a small smile to appear on France‘s face. The young nation didn‘t like to stay angry for long, not when there was still so much beauty to admire in the world.

Considerably more cheerful because of his little discovery, France picked his way through the flowers, being careful not ruin them or his tunic. Noticing a grassy spot where he could sit and still be in arm‘s reach of the flowers, he started toward it. He gathered blossoms in his arms while he walked, and even started humming a little tune as he wove the stems together. He‘d show those caterpillar-brows that he could have plenty of fun on Valentine’s Day without him.

‘I’m not the one who is so lonely that I talk to imaginary friends,’ he thought, his lips unconsciously forming a pout, ‘I could have visited _Espagne_ or even _Italie_ , but I chose to visit poor _Angleterre_ and that _rosbif_ is not even thankful for my company! It’s not fair!’

He blurted out the last thought with such indignation that he ripped apart his flower chain, showering the ground in petals. Letting out a cry of frustration, he threw the rest of the flowers into the air.

France watched in resignation as the flowers scattered over the surface of the pond. Small waves rippled out at every petal, distorting his forlorn reflection. He sighed, and sat down heavily in the grass —

— Only to shoot back up with a high-pitched yelp when something pricked his sensitive bottom. Rubbing his abused _derrière_ through his tunic, the blond turned to glare at whatever had caused him such pain.

It turned out to be a small rose plant with a single scarlet bloom, barely unfurled from its bud. Its thorny stem had been snapped halfway down from France‘s weight. The annoyed country shifted his foot, prepared to kick the offending plant, but he stopped.

The broken seedling was a pitiful sight. It grew alone in a sea of grass. Its fellow flowers almost seemed to be avoiding its prickly nature. Frowning, though he wasn‘t sure if he was directing it toward the plant or himself, France bent to pick up the red blossom. It stuck him with a thorn and he dropped it with a squeak.

Huffing, he picked it up again, and held it delicately by the leaf between his thumb and forefinger.

“You’re just like him,” he grumbled.

He could just see England’s notched arrows and trademark scowl behind its thorns, England’s pout in the budding flower, England’s green eyes behind its leaves, and even England’s glowing blush behind its bruised petals.

It irritated him beyond belief.

He flung the broken flower into the pond, feeling an absurd satisfaction as it landed in the water with a ‘plop’. He watched as tiny waves rocked the petals on the surface of the pond like colourful ships in a stormy sea.

When the rose turned over and began to sink, France was suddenly hit with a pang of regret.

As abruptly as he had thrown it away, he snatched the flower just before it went under the surface.

Its leaves, drooping under the weight of water droplets, now reminded him of tears threatening to spill from emerald eyes. It made him feel ridiculously guilty. Sitting down, he gently dried it on his tunic.

“I’m sorry,” he said, before realizing that he was apologizing to a plant. He stared at it for a while. Then he laughed. “Looks like you have finally driven me insane, _Angleterre_.”

The thought of apologizing to England for calling him heartless crossed his mind. France plucked idly at the rose thorns as he contemplated the pros and cons. On one hand, England would probably be appeased enough to play with him. On the other, France wasn’t sure if he could handle the younger nation’s smug face without declaring war. Not to mention, England definitely wouldn’t apologize for calling Valentine’s Day stupid anytime soon. He smoothed over the petals of the rose, wondering if a playmate was worth the price of insufferability.

That was when the presence of the subject of his thoughts caught his attention.

The bushy-browed nation was walking, or rather shuffling from France‘s perspective, toward him while trying to keep something hidden in his cloak. Whatever he was holding wasn‘t his rabbit, which was hopping along beside him, happily twitching its ears. The same couldn‘t be said for the green eyed nation, whose every movement was conflicted and reluctant.

England‘s eyebrows were drawn together with worry, and he was chewing on his lip like he always did when he was nervous. As he approached, France was amused to see that the tips of his ears were flushed red.

Something warm and fuzzy seemed to nestle itself into France‘s chest at the sight of the other boy. The French nation almost raised his arm to wave and call out to England, but then he suddenly remembered that he was supposed to be sulking and it wouldn‘t do to let the other nation think that he had already forgiven him. He waited until England came to a halt less than a metre away from him.

France opened his mouth, but couldn‘t really think of anything to say. England wasn‘t helping; he kept shifting from side to side, and the way his gaze darted from the ground to France and to the surrounding trees made it seem as though he was contemplating escape.

In the end, France was spared from making the first move when England shoved the thing from under his cape into France‘s face, proclaiming (in a voice that was about an octave higher than usual), “For you!”

The older nation was suddenly faced with a bouquet of fragrant white lilies and a red faced island nation who was trying his hardest not to look into France‘s eyes.

“ _…Quoi_?” he said eloquently.

“Um,” replied England, staring intensely at the ground, “What I mean is… I-I’m sorry for saying Valentine’s Day is stupid... I don’t actually think that it’s such a bad idea.”

France suddenly felt heat rising in his cheeks, and the warmth in his chest swelled. Taking the lilies from England, he giggled and said, “ _Merci_ , _Angleterre_! I accept your apology.”

When England looked up through his lashes and shyly met his own eyes, France couldn‘t help himself. He grabbed the other nation and pulled him into a tight hug, squealing, “You are so cute!”

He ignored England‘s squirming and muffled protests in favour of burying his face in the Anglo-Saxon‘s sandy-blond hair. He savoured the way the other boy smelled of wild strawberries and the morning rain. More than anything, he wanted to memorize the joy that was bubbling up inside his chest.

When it became clear France wasn’t going to let go anytime soon, England eventually gave up fighting his affections, and tentatively returned the embrace.

What felt like an eternity could have lasted minutes, seconds, or hours until France pulled away. He thought he heard a disappointed noise, but then England practically jumped out of his arms, his cheeks still dusted with light pink.

“Don’t get the wrong idea, this doesn’t mean I like you or anything!” he said quickly.

“But _mon lapin_ , you gave me flowers on Valentine’s Day!” France whined, though a mischievous smile was spreading across his face, “What else does this mean?”

England’s angry blush returned (France wondered whether it was at the hated nickname, or what he had implied) and he snapped, “Shut up! You- you frog!”

He turned and stormed away.

France smirked at his retreating back, but it was half hearted at best.

He looked down at the lilies still clutched in his hand, feeling the warmth in his chest deflate, and wondered if he should toss them in the pond. Then he noticed, lying innocently at his feet, was the de-thorned rose.

Making a split second decision, he grabbed the crimson flower and ran to catch up with England.

“ _Angleterre_ , wait!” he called. Amazingly, England stopped, looking back at him warily.

Away from the shade of the meadow, the sun illuminated his hair, casting the illusion of a golden halo around his head. It lit up the hidden depths of his green eyes and even his normally pale skin glowed. If it weren‘t for those monstrous eyebrows, France could have mistaken him for one of the fae creatures he loved to talk about.

Smiling at his own thoughts, he ran right up to the other boy, holding out the red rose. England took the offering cautiously, as if expecting it to bite him. France didn‘t miss the surprise that flickered across his face when he realized the thorns had been removed.

 “It reminds me of you,” he blurted.

England blushed to the roots of his hair. “What? What are you saying…?”

Suddenly realizing exactly what he had said, France felt his insides shrivel up in mortification. “Because — because it matches the colour of your face!” he added quickly, stumbling over his words.

As if to prove him right, England‘s blush intensified while he spluttered with indignation (‘or was that embarrassment?’ France wondered). “You — I — Why — Argh! Bloody frog!” he shrieked, and aimed a kick at the older nation, who laughed and danced out of the way.

“Catch me if you can,” he taunted, waving the white lilies in the air. England immediately gave chase as France turned on his heel, giggling at the stream of English insults that followed him. 


End file.
